


to fuck

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Cupid (TV 1998)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-13
Updated: 2007-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire is, above all things, self-aware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to fuck

Claire is, above all things, self-aware – she knows that if she's drinking Pinot Grigio it means she's nervous; knows she tends to comfort herself on bad days with shoes; knows that she's purposefully tried to purge profanity from her vocabulary because she can't shake the vague sense that it makes her sound dumb.

But there's just no way to avoid it this morning – profanity's the only resource she has to describe what happened last night. They _fucked_. She and Alex fucked. No making love; no tender, sweet, affectionate exchange – no, they fucked, and it's making it damn hard for her to keep her mind on her clients, never mind about sit still in her chair.

There'd been no warning, no obvious clue that this was on his mind – she'd come home, slid her key into the lock, found the door pulled open from inside and then, before she could process exactly who, what, where, when, she was pressed up against the inside of the door by Alex's body, one hand against her face, the other pulling her briefcase from her hand, casting it aside as he kissed her raw.

He'd hiked up her skirt as if he did this, accosted her in the hallway, every single day – slid one large hand up the inside of her thigh, nipping at her bottom lip as his fingers stole beneath her underwear and began to trace circles against her body, already wet. She'd curled her hands in his shirt-sleeves, rocking her hips into his touch, reeling at this change in him, stunned by the way he just _took_ – and when he'd pulled back a fraction and she could see the look in his eyes she hadn't been able to help herself from groaning, shuddering, slick against his hand. "Bed?" she'd asked. Her voice had shook.

And he'd smirked at her, kissed her roughly. "First one right here," he'd growled, low and quiet, and it didn't take long, not with his fingers buried inside her, not with her pressing down hard against the heel of his hand, whimpering as she came, head thudding back against the door. When she opened her eyes it was to watch him smirk again, lift his hand to his lips and suck each finger clean. She could hardly be blamed for the fact that her knees went weak, that he had to catch her beneath her elbow to stop her falling, or that he chose to swing her up into his arms and take her upstairs while her body was still singing with aftershocks and she couldn't form words.

He wasn't done – she shivered to remember how he'd looked at her, predatory, fond, so utterly focused – and he'd laid her out across their bed, undressed her quickly and pushed her thighs apart while he stayed fully clothed. She'd struggled to protest – too soon, she'd be too sensitive – but the touch of his tongue was soft, wet, just firm enough to make her gasp, not firm enough to hurt, and the _sounds_ he made; the slick smack of his lips, the hum of pleasure whenever he made her jolt, his soothing whispers when she gasped and pleaded, all accompanied by the pressure of his fingertips against her thighs, kneading, pressing; the wash of his breath and the pressure of his lips. When she came again it was a slow, rolling crest of sensation that blinded her, wrung her out, made her fist the comforter just to have something to fill her empty hands.

She'd watched him undress, eyes-half closed, breath too fast; watched him shed his shirt and pants and tie, strip his boxers, expose himself, aching and hard. He'd wet his lips, smiled at her – and that was all it took, all the invitation she needed to steeple her legs, arch her back just a little, reach for him, sigh with satisfaction when he slid inside, when he settled his weight, tangled their fingers and pressed her hands to the mattress and began to – god, _fuck_ her, slam his hips and wrench a sob from her throat with every single stroke.

She came again, melting beneath him, clenching tight around his cock until his face registered pleasure that was a hair's breadth from pain. He came after, hips snapping wildly, spilling inside her before his arms gave way and he buried his face against her throat; before he lifted his head, kissed her clumsily, and settled them both beneath rumpled covers; before he curled against her back and made her body jump when his hand settled warm against her hip.

"Hi," she'd breathed, boneless and exhausted.

"You're home," he'd finished for her and kissed her shoulder, pulling her snug into the curve of his body and holding her close until she fell asleep.


End file.
